


The Gorgeous Men

by Bonymaloney



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Butt Plugs, Frottage, Knife Play, M/M, Medical Kink, Mind Control, Muscles, Naked Fighting, Nunvil, Oral Sex, Selfcest, Space Pirates, if spaceships had hearth rugs they’d be wrestling on it, moustaches, nursing back to health, the noncon is in chapter 2 only
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-03-27 22:39:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13890621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bonymaloney/pseuds/Bonymaloney
Summary: What’s better than one Coran... lots of Coran! Hot Coran-on-Coran action across various timelines, dimensions and AU settings.





	1. So No Big Deal

“Let’s check the Rift Exit Positioning Monitor to see where this wormhole is taking us!”

Coran rolled his eyes and groaned. As if being stuck in a probably-fatal anomaly of space and time wasn’t bad enough, he’d heard the same the same phrase multiple times already, each time from a progressively younger version of himself. The bridge was crowded with them, and he had so much to do. He needed to look after the Princess, make sure she wasn’t expending too much energy by sustaining this never-ending jump; he needed to check if there was a problem with the lenses, or the couplers, or any of the other non-magical aspects of the teludav. And he needed to keep an eye on the kids, let alone the baby, handsome little tyke that he was. And now this latest arrival was swanning around, flashing his muscles and making dramatic declarations and getting himself into everyone’s eyeline. 

And in fact, after everyone else had left the Castleship, fading away to presumably return to their own time periods, the spiky haired interloper was the one who remained. The Paladins and the Princess were all quite taken with him, and one or two of them even wanted to go along with his idea of trying to pilot them back through the rift and getting himself home that way. Coran had marched him quite sternly to his quarters. 

“You can’t ask the Princess to risk her life for us like that! It’s outrageous! Especially when we dont even know what we did to restore the others. We can’t hope to repeat it!”

The other Coran was contrite, bowing his head, although Coran suspected that was partly to show off his markings. “You’re right, Flightmaster, I’m sorry.” It was disconcerting to be addressed by his former title after all this time. “Please give the Princess my most sincere compliments, and beg her humbly to open a wormhole back to Altea. I’ll take a shuttle through, the scientists there will be able to work out how to get me back to my time, and you’ll be able to continue on your mission with these aliens.”

Coran sighed. “It’s not that simple. I think you might have to get used to calling this place home for a while.”

The young sargeant’s eyes flashed, and he posed ostentatiously. 

“I’ll find a way to get back to _my_ home! Even if you won’t help me!” 

Coran bit back his own temper. 

“It’s not that I won’t help you, it’s that I _can’t!_ I can’t tell you your future - there are rules about this sort of thing for a reason!”

“Rules? I’ll never give into rules! When did I become so boring?”

“I’ll let that slide. I know you must be very stressed by the current situation.”

“And when did my hair get so flat?”

“Oh-! How dare you!”

“Stick-in-the-mud!”

“Hothead!”

Coran suddenly realised how close together they were standing. 

The other broke first. He turned to one side, and as though looking for an excuse reached out and grabbed a bottle of nunvil from the shelf.

“Careful! That’s some of the last in the universe- er, of that particular vintage, I mean...”. He stammered, trying to cover up the slip, but Sargeant Coran shook his head. 

“Something awful has happened, hasn’t it. Something awful’s going to happen... To me.”

Coran met his gaze and was suddenly drymouthed at the indescribably strange sensation of looking into his own eyes. The same striking shade of violet, the same dark liquid pupils. There were no wrinkles around them yet, but Coran consoled himself with the fact that there was also no dashing scar.

“Drink up, lad,” he managed eventually, and poured two generous measures. They gazed around the room together, and Coran was torn between joining in his counterpart’s sorrow and kicking himself over the fact he’d left all his memorabilia lying around. The young man could surely read his own future in the sad collection of items. 

“Tell you what,” he managed. “Why don’t we talk about what you’re up to these days? Cheer both of us right up! I’m guessing by that pin on your collar you’ve already scalped your first weblum?” 

They sat on the bed, because there was nowhere else in the room to sit and be sociable. 

“Remember that drill instructor in our first week? The terrifying one?”

“With the great big... yes, I remember her!”

It was so good to be around another adult Altean after being lonely for so long. And the nunvil was going down a treat. 

“...and then Anton swung for me and missed and went right into a great big pile of Yelmore ruggle! I had to scrub pods for a week, but it was worth it...”

Coran blinked. When did his hand end up on the other man’s thigh? The texture of the fabric felt almost hypnotic beneath his palm. Sure, it had been a while, even not counting the decaphoebs in suspension, and sure, he was exceptionally gorgeous, all great hair and teeth and big brawny arms...

“Really?” Sargeant Coran raised his eyebrows. “I guess things must get pretty desperate in the future...” The grin on his face belied his outraged tone. 

“Well of course, if you’re too shy..?” Coran twirled his moustache loftily. 

“You couldn’t handle me, old man!” He turned his body and gave a challenging little thrust of his hips. 

“I’ll show you, you cheeky little quiznak...” 

Coran leaned forward and kissed his younger self, tasting the nunvil and, with a pang of nostalgia, a hint of classic Altean cuisine that he’d presumably been eating earlier. Deepening the kiss was a little awkward, as they both instinctively leaned in the same direction at the same time, but soon enough he was relishing the brush of the other man’s moustache against his cheek, the way he nipped at his lower lip then soothed the wound with his tongue. It was his own move used against him, and it was satisfyingly effective. 

They peeled each other’s shirts and gloves off, and then he let his hands wander lower, squeezing his arms and shoulders and that flat hard belly, stroking him through the tight Space Squad breeches that left nothing to the imagination. He could smell the younger man’s arousal, it was the way he smelled when he was excited too, which created a very interesting positive feedback loop. The other Coran was tracing his markings with deft, strong fingers, and it had been oh so long since he’d been touched, he was going to embarrass himself if he wasn’t careful...

“Mind if I go first?” he gasped when they finally broke apart to catch their breath, both flushed, their stripes beginning to flicker. 

“Age before beauty,” the sargeant drawled. 

Right. That did it. 

Coran slipped off the bed and went to his knees, mouthing at the erection that was so enticingly straining before him. The other man gave a growl of approval and lifted his hips eagerly, yanking his pants down with all the enthusiasm of youth. His cock was thick and full, with a single pearly blue bead of precum just forming at the tip, and looked altogether very fetching from this angle, Coran noted approvingly. He’d always wondered. 

He pressed kisses to the inside of his knee, working his way upwards to mouth gently at the fine hairs of his inner thigh, then let his fingers trace the same path with a light, teasing caress. 

“One day you’ll meet a man who writes poetry about the way your thighs look when you’re riding him,” he murmured, burying his face in the soft skin and nuzzling. 

He trailed kisses down the streak of coarse red hair that led from navel to groin, producing a groan and an impatient buck of the hips. 

“Ah, ah,” Coran chided, before he finally relented and took him in his mouth. The boy needed to learn some restraint. 

Maybe it was because his younger self was still mostly all talk at that point in his life, maybe it was because he knew exactly what he liked, but Coran soon had him moaning and writhing, fingers twisting in his hair as he tried to fuck his mouth. His counterpart was very strong, but Coran pinned him by his hips and set a slow, thorough pace, exploring every single ridge with his tongue as he sweated and swore. He cupped his balls, satisfyingly weighty, then let one finger slide lower and back, teasing his cleft, letting the other mans movements ease his finger inside. 

The colourful profanity soon trailed off into broken syllables, and then incomprehensible sounds. Coran recognised the signs and took him as deep as he could go, swallowing the thick seed as it spurted into his mouth. He continued to suckle and probe with his finger, gentle but remorseless, until all he could hear was whimpering. 

Coran moved to straddle the younger man’s lean, muscular thighs, stroking his cock with a slow, leisurely pace, sucking and biting on his ears. His skin was creamy and freckley and Coran couldn’t stop touching his pecs. They caressed each other’s stripes, grinding together until Coran came with a shudder and a gasp, shooting his load across his chest and belly. 

“Oh, that’s all in my hair,” the younger Coran grumbled, wiping at himself with an expression of distaste. 

“You’ll cope, lad.” Coran lay back, suddenly exhausted. He felt relaxed and melancholic in equal measure. His gaze wandered from the near-empty bottle of nunvil, to his old helmet, to the portrait of Alfor on the wall above him. “You’ll cope.”


	2. Weird Science

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coran runs into a sticky situation when the crew encounter Alteans from an alternate universe.

Coran came to with the sound of his own heart rhythm beeping in his ears. His limbs felt heavy, he was naked, and things were... _attached_ to him that most definitely shouldn’t be. He groaned and flinched against the light as he struggled to open his eyes. His surroundings were familiar but different, much like everything around him on board this Castleship. 

Much like the man who was standing over him now, leaning down with a solicitous expression on his face. 

The Advisor to the Empress Allura was thin, his features drawn, but he still radiated power. His grey hair was distinguisherd, his eyes piercing. When Coran first met him he’d been rather taken with him. The aesthetic of this Altean Empire was severe, far more red in it than he would have chosen - it clashed terribly with his hair - but they were visiting an alternate universe. Things were bound to be different here. 

He’d been appalled to discover quite how different. Alfor’s vision for peace in the universe had been one of friendship and cooperation. Shapeshifting in order to fit in might have been a slightly underhand means of diplomacy, but it was nothing compared to the appalling, horrifying, entirely Unaltean creation of the noncogs. 

The Advisor had taken him by the arm, assured him there was an explanation for everything. He’d guided him towards the alchemy labs with the prospect of seeing Alfor’s work, of touching it with his own hands... Lulled into a false sense of security, Coran hadn’t been able to resist. And then everything had gone black. 

The Advisor was stroking his hair, a half smile curling the edges of his lips. Coran tried to speak, but... his head. Something was wrong with his head.

“Most noncogs have the hokril implanted in them from birth. They never know free will. After a few decaphoebs we see quite different results... sorry about that. I can’t have you interfering with the Empress’ plans.”

Coran felt as though he were seeing everything through a haze, _thinking_ through a haze. The Advisor’s hand moved lower, and now he was tracing Coran’s ears, and his cheekbones. 

“In fact, you’re going to help, and you’re not going to have much choice in the matter. I can make you do anything I want. I could keep you on your knees in my quarters, use your mouth whenever I felt like it.”

He slipped a gloved finger across Coran’s lower lip, and his eyes widened in shock. The Mad Alchemist And His Beautiful Helpless Victim was a common trope in Altean popular dramas, and one that he and Alfor had spent many very enjoyable hours role playing. And now the hokril was taking the pleasant feelings associated with those memories, applying them to the current situation, making Coran have to fight the temptation to just... go with it.

“I’m going to be a bit more productive than that though! Duty first, after all! You’re going to guide your Princess the same way I’ve guided mine, and the Altean Empire won’t just rule the entire universe, we’ll rule _every_ universe! And I’ll make Alfor proud...”

Coran recognised the glint in his eye and the intensity in his words, recognised it from himself, the way he felt when he was frayed too thin and the loss of his King and his world was almost too great to bear. And this Advisor had been mourning that way for 10000 decaphoebs. Maybe the continuous exposure to the rift had eroded his moral compass the way it had Zarkon’s, maybe he’d never had much of one to begin with, but the end result was the same. He was crazed with grief and power. 

“...but first of all, turn over and spread yourself for me.”

Ancients damn the hokril for making that seem like such a wonderful suggestion. 

He lay on his front, reaching behind himself and parting his buttocks with his hands, painfully aware of the other Advisor behind him, staring down at him with malicious glee.

“No one could ever replace Alfor for me. That’s why I won’t let dirty outsiders like you sully his great work. But still, I can’t pass up a chance like this... after all, you’re almost as gorgeous as me!”

Coran felt a perfunctory slick of cold jelly around his hole, the hokril magnifying the pleasure he felt until he was bucking back against his will. He felt a large, blunt pressure, and then a sudden painful stretch as his rim gave way and permitted the other man inside. He moaned as pain and artificial pleasure warred inside him, and the Advisor chuckled. 

“We’re both quite big boys, aren’t we? Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you feel every single inch...”

Alteans generally preferred to mate face to face. Being taken from behind like this was humiliating as well as painful, sending a hot sharp stabbing sensation up into his belly. The other Coran had his fingers twined in his hair, forcing his face down into the bed, grunting with every thrust. The combination of the hokril telling him that everything was alright, better than alright, and the angle at which the other man’s cock was grazing against his prostate had made him hard. His cheeks flushed with shame as he felt himself leaking precum, and his counterpart certainly noticed. 

“You really are filthy aren’t you? Look how wet you are for me. I bet I wouldn’t have even needed the mind control, you’d be happy to let anyone have a go...” 

He wrapped his hand around Coran’s shaft and gave him a few tugs, nowhere near what he needed, then wiped the slick precum from his hand across Coran’s face. 

The Advisor seemed to be be close now, his fingers digging hard into Coran’s hips, his thrusts rough and uneven. Finally he bit down into Coran’s shoulder as he came, shooting hot thick fluid against his walls. Coran shook with disgust, imagining the seed streaked with black or even white rather than a healthy, life-giving blue, damaged by the Rift just as the Advisor himself had been. And yet he was still hard. 

“Time for you to get to work,” the Advisor said as he fastened his uniform and straightened his hair. His tone was chirpy, and Coran recognised the chipper post-coital spring in his step. He himself had even been known to whistle on occasion, and he dreaded the thought that the Advisor might start doing the same. 

He felt something cold and hard being pressed into him, and realised with horror that it was a plug, stuffing him up tight with all that corrupted seed, and he moaned in protest. 

“I’d never put a hokril in the Princess. She’s still the Royal Family, after all, and she’ll need her free will to be a truly effective leader. So your job is to convince her. Do it well, and I might even let you come.” He flicked the plug, and Coran shuddered and groaned. “Do it badly and I’ll need to explore my other options. That tall boy, with the interesting hair and the nice muscles, for example...”

When he was dressed and groomed he felt much better, like himself again, like everything was normal; and he knew that that in itself was part of the insidious effects of the hokril. Inspecting himself in the mirror, he realised with a sinking stomach that the Paladins and the Princess would have no reason to suspect a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The horrible Advisor belongs to Charalampidisgruber, and I love him. If you do too, be sure to check out Then/Now.


	3. Pirate Booty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU where instead of joining the Space Squad, Coran runs away and becomes a space pirate. Then bangs his gorgeous counterpart.

“I’ve found the way, Coran. I’m going to Oriande!”

Alfor had been so full of excitement, so alive with his own cleverness. The Prince’s beauty took Coran’s breath away, as always. But it had been laced with an undertone of pain at Alfor’s thoughtlessness, his joy in planning a journey Coran could never join him on. 

“Stop moping,” his mother scolded him with exasperated sympathy. “You’ll love the Space Squad, it’ll be the making of you...”

Coran rolled his eyes, tossed his fashionably cut hair, and turned his music up even louder. He wasn’t magical enough to be an alchemist like the love of his life. Wasn’t even magical enough to become his grandfather’s apprentice and build - he’d inherited his name and his hair, but not his abilities with Quintessence. His mother was well respected as a pilot and it was understandable that she wanted him to follow in her footsteps, but he’d be all alone, and Alfor wouldn’t be there, and he was expected to pretend it was fine but it was so _unfair_...

Stealing the shuttle was the work of a few impulsive dobashes, and as he broke atmosphere he whooped and hollered and turned his music up even louder. He would show them all. 

A few vargas later, however, the fear of the unknown vastness of space was beginning to bubble up inside him. He didn’t want to go home, but he didn’t know where to go...

Suddenly, the proximity sensor began to alarm, and Coran found that the decision had been abruptly taken out of his hands. He was dragged before the pirate captain and forced to his knees. She seemed to loom over him, her smile cruel, and Coran felt himself trembling. Everyone had heard of Caelynn the Blue. 

“An Altean,” she grinned, although judging by her markings she was at least half Altean herself. “Quite a scrawny specimen... what am I supposed to do with you?”

Scrawny?! Coran felt his ego flare, and he puffed his chest out and looked her in the eye. 

“Just don’t make me go back to Altea! There’s nothing for me there...” He tossed his hair back, revelling in the melodrama of it all even as he thought he might faint with terror. 

“Oh, don’t worry,” her grin broadened. “There’s no chance of that...”

His defiance seemed to amuse her, and she ended up taking him to bed, along with the tall alien who appeared to be her second in command. He awoke a few hours later aching, and filled with an odd combination of shame and pride. When he stumbled his way onto the main deck there were more than a few sleazy comments from the crew, but when one of the engine modulators broke down and Coran offered to take a look they let him. It was a simple enough problem to fix, and when one of the Unilu crewmen clapped him on the back he felt warm inside.

Many decaphoebs later, The Gorgeous Man was a name to be feared throughout the universe. If it was right for people to gain status and power with magical ability, or by being born the son of the Galra Emperor, then why not through an inventive flair for violence? Coran had crushed his conscience with resentment and nunvil, and gone to it with a will. He had heard the stories of Alfor’s marriage, of the Galra alliance, of Voltron; and the rage and sadness inside him burned deep and hot. 

They had been fleeing from an Empire patrol that was proving infuriatingly difficult to shake when it all went wrong. The fleet scattered, as planned, and Coran dived into a particularly dense asteroid field. He was congratulating himself on his cleverness when the sensors picked up an odd source of energy ahead. Initially he ignored it, putting the unusual readings down to distortion, until suddenly it was right in front of him. A phenomenon he’d never seen before, all sinister pink and purple swirls, it had his ship on its grasp and no matter how hard he fired the thrusters, he was drawn inescapably towards it.

Coran was going to die. 

Images of his mum and of Alfor suddenly flooded his mind, and he did the only thing he could think of to do, and cracked open a bottle. 

He was going to die like a pirate.

Captain Coran was on deep space patrol, his mind half on the long range scanners and half on the welcome that awaited him when he returned to Altea. The Space Squad truly had been the making of him, he mused. He had muscles on his muscles, his ponytail was dashing, his uniform spotless. It had been tough at first, adjusting to the change in his relationship with Alfor - from boyhood friends to King and soldier - but they had made it through the awkward patches. Coran loved Alfor, and he loved Aurora because of how happy she made Alfor. And now the King and Queen were sending him encrypted messages describing exactly what they were going to do to him the next time he had shore leave...

An alert sounded, and he focussed his full attention on the rift ahead. A surge of energy was building, and he raised his shields with lightning reflexes, just a few ticks before the wave swept over his ship, trailing space dust and debris in its wake. 

Coran blinked. There was a life sign coming from a particularly large chunk of debris. As he moved closer and re-focussed, he saw that it was a ship. Unsurprisingly battered, it still gave an impression of speed and danger, and Coran donned his armour and checked his weapons before he went aboard.

The man in the pilot seat was unconscious, whether because of his injuries or due to the large quantities of nunvil he appeared to have consumed, Coran wasn’t sure. His hair was plastered against his skull with blood, and his boots and his black leather coat were soaked in it. It was astonishing that he’d survived being ejected from the rift at all. He groaned as Coran dragged him from his chair and then went limp.

The patrol ship had limited medical facilities, and no healing pod, so Coran had to do things the old fashioned way. Judging by the state of his ship, and the fact that not all the blood that stained his coat was his own, the man was almost certainly a pirate, but as a fellow deep-space traveller he deserved help regardless. Coran laid him out on his bed and stripped him off, cleaning and dressing wounds as he went. He lifted the eyepatch away from his face and wiped the blood away, and let out a gasp. 

Apart from the knot of scar tissue where his eye should be, the man could be his twin. His hairline, the colour and shape of his marks... they even had the same moustache. Some long-lost relative, a distant branch of the Wimbledon-Smythe clan fallen on hard times? His mum would be mortified to learn there was pirate in the family... 

He bathed the man carefully, making him as clean and comfortable as he could. Apart from the odd moan, he was unresponsive. Coran was washing his leg, when he suddenly froze. That scar across his knee, there was no question - it was identical. The first time he’d faced the gladiator, as a young stripling of barely seventy, it had caught him a good clip on the side of the head and he’d fallen forward...

Coran felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He retreated to his cockpit and set a course back to Altea, full speed ahead. Partly to return his prisoner, but mainly to put as much distance between himself and the anomaly behind him as possible.

He rather wished he’d saved some of the pirate nunvil

Despite his agitation, he eventually managed to snatch a few Vargas of sleep in the pilot seat, and when he awoke his curiosity overcame his nerves. After a quick sweep of the scanners, he left the autopilot in place and made his way back to his sleeping quarters. The man on the bed glared at him and tried to sit up, but his arms gave way and he slumped back into the bed. 

“Water,” he croaked in a disturbingly familiar voice. Coran felt weak at the knees, but he quickly brought a glass, supported the other man’s head as he drank. 

“Who are you?” It felt stupid and unnecessary, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. 

“Food,” was the only reply, and Coran gave him rations, watching with a mixture of exasperation and pity as he ate ravenously.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” he eventually continued through a mouthful of food. “I fell through a rift. I’m you.”

“That isn’t possible though! The comets are the only things that can make it through. Everyone that tried has died!” It wasn’t just the interdimensional travel that was impossible. Coran was deeply offended that any version of him, _anywhere_ , might be capable of being a pirate.

“I’m not just anyone, I’m the Gorgeous Man. I wasn’t worthy enough for Oriande, but I suppose I’m worthy enough for this...”

“Oriande.” Coran scoffed. “Superstitious nonsense.”

“ _My_ Alfor went to Oriande,” the pirate replied, turning away to face the wall, and there was so much misery in that one sentence that Coran felt his heart ache, despite the man’s undoubtedly heinous crimes. 

There was a silent pause, but just as Coran thought the other had fallen asleep again, he spoke. 

“What are you going to do with me?”

“I’m taking you back to Altea. You’re still a pirate,” Coran replied, and felt immediately more secure in himself. He was doing his duty. The other man just grunted, stared at the wall and said no more. 

Coran left him alone. He ate his own meal, and after a while he slept again. When he awoke he realised how sweaty and grimy he was, how long it had been since he’d had a good wash. He glanced in at his prisoner, who was unconscious again, before unlacing his boots with a sigh. He peeled his uniform off, and went gratefully into the shower. 

When he emerged, towel around his waist, his instincts alerted him to something wrong, and he stopped short. But before he was able to process the thought any further, there was something cold and sharp against the side of his face, a body standing far too close behind him, an arm around his throat.

“Oh, you scumbag!” he gasped. The other man laughed. 

“You should have put a pillow over my face while you had the chance.”

“That’s the kind of thing a dirty pirate would do.”

He felt the tip of the knife trace his cheekbone, agonisingly close to his stripe, before running lightly, terrifyingly, downwards, nicking his chin before coming to a rest just beneath his jawbone.

“You can looks down on me all you want. But at the end of the Quintant I’m the one holding the knife...”

“But I can do this!” Coran exclaimed and threw himself backwards, knocking the pirate into the wall and forcing the breath out of him. Training hard and eating well had left him stronger and heavier than his counterpart, and he felt a sharp pain, heard the knife clatter to the floor, and he was free. He dived forward, but at the last moment a hand around his ankle sent him sprawling across the floor.

They struggled together, desperately grasping for the knife. Coran didn’t know if he wanted to throw it away or to use it. He could smell smoke and nunvil on the other man, was keenly aware of his blood tricking down his arm. He wrestled his way on top and pinned his wrists to the ground, and the pirate’s legs were around his back. He was trying to prise Coran off, but he looked tired, with defeat in his eyes. Coran knew he’d fooled him once by pretending to be unconscious, but he didn’t think he was play acting now. He cautiously removed his hands, resting them instead on the pirate’s heaving chest. He realised that somewhere during the fight he’d lost his towel, and the other man was hard, and Coran wasn’t sure what was going on but he was half hard too. 

Coran himself enjoyed being overpowered, and that seemed to be the case regardless of what universe he was in. He also liked to take care of his partner, especially one who must have seen so little tenderness in his life. So he leaned down and kissed the other man, first on his lips, then his throat, his clavicle, the bruises on his ribs. Pirate Coran gasped and moaned, arching upwards, but Coran pinned him by his hips before nuzzling at his stripes, tracing them gently with his tongue, grinning at the response he received. 

“You like that, eh?” he gasped roughly. “What about this?” He freed the other man’s shaft from his shorts, grasped them together, began rocking his hips gently. With his other hand he gripped the pirate by the hair, just holding him still, letting him know who was in charge. “You look gorgeous... _we_ look gorgeous. I can’t wait to see my cum all over your skin...”

The pirate was arching and writhing beneath him, breath coming shorter and sharper as he rutted upwards. “Just like that... just like that...” They clung together and shuddered as they came, not quite sure where one of them ended and the other began.

They crawled into bed, and Coran cradled the injured man into his chest. “What happens now, then?” he grunted, his voice muffled against Coran’s skin. 

“I’m taking you back to Altea... it’ll be alright. You’ll just have to stop being a pirate.”

“Maybe you should stop being Alfor’s pet...” He nuzzled into Coran’s embrace with an enthusiasm that belied his words.

The next morning, he was gone. An escape pod was missing, along with the filthy clothes and boots he’d worn. Although it would have been easy for him to make his way by impersonating Coran, none of his uniforms or personal effects were missing, which Coran took as a sign of respect. He resolved to return the favour by giving the sneaky pirate a few movements’ head start before hunting him down. 

After all, he was on his way home, with an absolutely _fascinating_ story to tell Alfor.


End file.
